


Laugh Lines

by KayleeFrye



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Frenemies, Friends to Enemies, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Foxglove Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-23 14:55:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8332039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KayleeFrye/pseuds/KayleeFrye
Summary: "However close you were in the past, Lesley May is not your friend. Not anymore.”Actually, I reckoned she was. We just happened to be on opposite sides of things now.





	

Although Molly’s foray into culinary experimentation had been improving over the last several months, I wasn’t always prepared to face her concoctions. When I smelled something putrid burning and heard the fire alarm going off in the kitchen that late afternoon in January, I knew it was one of those days. I slipped surreptitiously out the front door and since Beverley was off visiting Melissa Oswald for the week, I decided kebabs were in order.

I felt less guilty eating out than I would if I brought food back to the tech cave so I decided to eat my order at the shop. At least this way, I could say it was a working dinner and I hadn’t had the time to stop in for Molly’s delicious home-cooked meal. Guilt sufficiently assuaged, I chose a seat near the back of the shop, facing the door, on the principle that if there’s going to be trouble—you want to see it when it comes waltzing through the door but be far enough from the entrance that you can remain unobtrusive, sneak up behind the bastard, and nail them. Which sadly only applies when the trouble walking through the door isn’t there especially for you.

I’d only just sat down with my kebab when I heard the door open and a short white woman with blond hair done up in a neat, tight ponytail walked in. I glanced at her as she stepped through the threshold to find her staring at me. She had blue eyes squarely set in a small face with rounded, dimpled cheeks and thin ruby lips. She stepped towards me. Our eyes locked across the dimly lit kebab shop. And that’s when it hit me—a flash of blood and screaming. It rolled across me: a wave of icy torrential wind and a brick to the stomach. There was the hint of a razor, sharp and cutting, that I’d begun to associate with the Faceless Man. Of toxic fumes and dust, heat and fire, repugnant rotting corpses and the snarling dog reminiscent of a demon trap.

Her face had smooth white skin; unmarked and unblemished, as flawless and fresh as a baby’s but stretched out disturbingly to fit a woman’s more developed bone structure. It was beautiful like an ice storm is beautiful; it’s all well and good if you’re inside and curled up on the couch with your river goddess girlfriend, a blanket wrapped around the both of you, a cup of hot cocoa on the table beside you, and your Latin homework in hand. Beautiful to look at from the warmth and safety of aforementioned girlfriend’s house, crystals forming in the treetops and creaking dangerously. But you wouldn’t want to be out in it—not with the risk of trees collapsing their load on your head at any moment.

I didn’t know the face but I knew the eyes. She slid into the booth across from me without a word.

“Lesley,” I said once I’d recovered enough from the blow of vestigia wafting off her face like steam from boiling water.  

Her eyes up close made me cringe. When she’d first showed me the ruins of her face that dreary October day in Brightlingsea, the eyes in the centre of that grotesque caricature of a face were still hers. I’d focused on her eyes, a blue line of hope amidst all that devastation and known she was still Lesley.

Her eyes as she sat across from me in the kebab shop were as bright and blue and clever as ever but sharper, harder than I remembered. They didn’t belong on that face because that face belonged to someone else. Choices like that—they change a person.

Despite everything that happened over the last eight months, I wanted to be happy for her. She got what she wanted. She got her face. Well, not her face—a face. What magic had done, it had undone just as she’d insisted it could from the start. But it wasn’t her face. It was somebody else’s. It was almost worse than looking at the ruin Punch made of her face, I thought.

“Hello, Peter,” said Lesley. “I’ve missed you.”

“You’re stalking me, then?” I asked.

“Every second of every day. I can’t bear to take my eyes off you.”

“I’m flattered,” I said and put up a shield, just in case. I didn’t think she’d try to harm me or trap me so Faceless could nab me—but then, I hadn’t expected her to taser me in the back eight months ago either. So better safe than sorry, all things considered.

“As well you should be,” said Lesley. She pointedly kept her hands under the table where I couldn’t see them. “Nice spot. This isn’t far from the Actor’s Church where you interviewed Nicholas Wallpenny.”

“He put on quite the performance,” I said. “Had me completely fooled. Just like you. You made a very good wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

“Don’t be melodramatic.”

As we talked I kept careful watch on Lesley, staunchly avoiding her eyes while I attempted to sneak my phone from my pocket to call Nightingale’s mobile. If Nightingale answered and I muted my phone, he’d be able listen and act as back up so we could bring Lesley in safely. If he didn’t answer, at least there’d be a record of the conversation.

Lesley apparently noticed my movement—which didn’t surprise me, really. Best of my generation, Seawoll called her. _And you broke her_.

“Don’t bother trying to call anyone,” she said. “I already blew out your phone.”

Of course she had. “Don’t mind if I check, do you?”

“Be my guest.”

I chanced a glance down at my mobile and sure enough, my battery was dead. No doubt if I opened the back and inspected it under a microscope, I’d find the telltale signs of thaumaturgical degradation. But I noticed that every other electronic device in the shop seemed to be working just fine—a pair of teens, a mixed-race boy and his white companion nearer the door were still texting away on their phones as they had been when I’d entered.

Something like a targeted EMP wave? I had a similar spell, a variation of _impello_ I’d invented to stop cars but mine was a lot less controlled and would have blown out everything in the shop.

“That’s a neat trick,” I said. “Your new friend teach you that?”

“I’d offer to teach you, but we really haven’t got the time.”

“What’s this all for, then? Why are you here, Lesley?”

She flashed me a grin: pearly teeth, ruby lips and no trace of laugh lines on her unnaturally flawless cheeks. “You said you wanted to know I was safe. I thought I’d take the opportunity to show you my new face,” she said, making little guns with her fingers and pointing at her grinning cheeks. “Do you like it?”

“I liked Punch’s work better. At least I knew it was still you in there.”

She snorted. “Right. Like you knew it was me the entire time I was sequestered. I told you—you don’t have the snuff for proper policing.”

“Look who’s talking,” I said. “I’ve managed to stay on the right side of the law at least.”

Her blue eyes turned icy and I could tell she wanted to hit me. The truth hurts. But then she softened. Lesley closed her eyes, pained—and despite her new features there was a brief flash where I almost saw Lesley in that tired, pained expression. Not quite the perky woman I’d met at Hendon, but Lesley just the same.

“There’s no going back now, you know,” I said, by way of apology because the line about Punch had been a low blow. This back and forth was so much like our usual banter—if I closed my eyes and ignored the knife-edge in my gut. We’d always bandied about, tossing bowling pins between us but now we were doing it on a tightrope with a raging inferno below us. I didn’t want this—I wanted my best mate back. Alas, if Star Wars taught me anything, it’s that there’s no coming back from the Dark Side. At least, not without paying the ultimate price. Which meant, now that she’d fully embraced it and gotten her face back—there wasn’t much in the way of options for Lesley returning to the light side and us both getting out of it alive and well.

“I know,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” I said. But she’d made her choices and now she had to lay in them.

“Come in with me,” I said. “Let’s not make a scene.”

I considered my options. The teens had finally left leaving just Lesley, me, and the man working the counter in the shop. I didn’t have cuffs, I had no way to call for back-up and Lesley had now spent eight months learning magic from a severely unethical magician. Who knew what kind of arsenal she had up her sleeve now?

“Don’t start with that,” said Lesley. “It’s not going to happen. You said it yourself, there’s no coming back now.”

“Then I’ll have to bring you in,” I said. I stood and called up a little fireball, just to show I was serious. There was a squeak and the man behind the counter ducked into the back—to call 999 I hoped. But because of my fireball, he’d have to use the phone next door unless he happened to have an ancient landline free of microprocessors. I seriously doubted my odds on that.

Lesley raised an eyebrow dubiously at my fireball. “You don’t want to hurt me,” she said.

“Doesn’t mean I won’t if I have to. Everyone’s got to face the hammer sooner or later, Lesley.”

“If you were going to try and arrest me, you’d have done it the moment you recognized me. Which, by the way, is exactly what you should have done—I’m disappointed you didn’t at least try.”

She shot me a weary, dithering look. “Look, I’m not here to fight,” she said. “I just wanted to warn you.”

“I thought you’d already done that,” I said. “That cryptic ‘it all kicks off in about a year.’ Very helpful that. I don’t think I’ve ever received such detailed, useful intel.”

“Properly,” she said. “In person. I owe you that.”

“I reckon you do,” I said.

“Faceless is making a play against Mama Thames,” she said. “In the next week or so, there will be a play on her life, or the life of one of her daughters. I don’t know who or how many.”

I pointed out that this was about the stupidest thing Faceless could attempt because we’d barely managed to hold Oberon back when Sky was killed and Nicky, despite being only a child (technically), had gone rogue and taken out one of the men responsible herself. Even so much as an attempt on the life of any of the Rivers would be a declaration of outright war and aside from an atomic bomb going off in the middle of London, that was about the last thing I needed. Lesley said she knew this but it wasn’t as if she controlled Faceless’ actions.

“Does Faceless have a name?”

“You know I can’t tell you that,” she said.

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Just protect them, Peter. Especially Bev.”

“Why Bev in particular?”

“Because you love her, you wally.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“You shouldn’t. I won’t blame you if you don’t—it’s good policing to be at least somewhat suspicious. But that’s up to you.”

“You’ve got to give me more to go on, Lesley,” I said.

“That’s all I have. If I had more, I’d tell you. I promise—I don’t want anything to happen to you or Bev. I’ll do what I can from my end, but that’s the best I can manage.”

So the death of innocent people so she could get her bloody face back was an acceptable loss, but she drew the line at gross bodily harm to friends. That was good to know. But what I couldn’t get my head around was Sky because I’d heard the unmistakeable anguish in Lesley’s voice when she’d discovered the body. She’d been as broken up as I was because while Lesley’s always had lesser opinions on humanity than me, she wasn’t heartless—far from it. Even with the offer of a face on the table… She found Sky’s broken body, cried out to anguish—and went on to join Faceless anyhow.

“It was too late by that point,” she said. “For the most part, I’d already finalized my arrangement with him. That included insurances of your safety and I was afraid he’d go after you if I backed out of our deal.”

People who unexpectedly find themselves on the wrong side of the law are very good at deluding themselves—“Yes, officer, I did break the cricket bat over the back of his head. But you see he had it coming so it can’t possibly be my fault.”

I didn’t doubt Lesley’s sincerity for my wellbeing but it was also classic justification because we could’ve done something about it if she’d told me and Nightingale what was going on. When I said I’d have preferred that to what she’d done, she only said she knew.

There were sirens in the distance now. Lesley must have heard them at the same time as me because she stood.

“Listen,” I said and rose to meet her before she could leave. “Next time I see you, I’m bringing you in.”

“You mean you’ll try to bring me in,” she said. She grinned and for a flash, I thought I could see her broken face through her expression and it almost felt more like Lesley than this stranger’s face.

“So if this is the last time I get a chance to tell you,” I said. “I want you to know I understand why you did what you did. Doesn’t mean I agree or forgive you—but I understand it. ”

“Don’t go getting all sappy on me,” she said. “But thank you, Peter. You too. Take care of yourself. Take care of Beverley and her family. Be careful. Don’t do anything stupid.”

She held out her hand. She was wearing red knitted gloves. We’d shaken hands only once before, the first time we were assigned as training partners at Hendon. For a trust exercise, no less—the lesson being that however much shit and puke you have to deal with from the public, your fellow officers will always have your back.

I still had my fireball ready, I could try to detain her long enough for help to arrive. They were close. I’d had the Faceless Man in my grasp—if I could nab him, I could hold Lesley long enough.

Except I’d kicked him in the head to get him and Lesley would fight back and even if she didn’t look like Lesley anymore—

She was right. I didn’t want to risk hurting her.

When I brought her in, it would be with a plan to ensure her safety.

“You too,” I said. I took her hand firmly and her grip was as strong as I remembered. I pursed my lips, gave her a stiff nod and released her.

She slid her hands into her pockets and slipped out into the cold January air. And despite the massive shit I’d be in when I told Nightingale and the DPS about my little rendezvous with Lesley, I let her go.

And I never got to eat my kebab, in case you were wondering. And that’s why you should always eat what Molly made for you, however grotesque.  
  
**  
After I’d established who I was for the incident response vehicles and explained that I’d been surrounded but unable to detain the suspect of Operation Carthorse, I was shepherded back to the Empress State Building. There, an understandably irate Inspector Pollock awaited me with many a fun-filled hour of grueling interrogation to establish whether I was in any way at fault for, or had assisted in, Lesley May’s escape.

I left out the magic bits and strongly suggested that I’d completed a risk assessment and felt that, without any way to call for assistance—my phone had _mysteriously_ stopped working just when I needed it, dang. And considering that Lesley had tasered me in the back the last time we’d gone head to head, I did not feel like I could apprehend her without risk of serious bodily harm to both PC May and myself. This was all technically true.

Pollock wasn’t best please but alas, he evidentially couldn’t find anything to charge me with and eventually had no recourse but to let me go—after a visit from a sketch artist to create composites of Lesley’s new face. How had Lesley changed her face? Beats me, doc, it’s a medical miracle. A fucking marvel of medical science.

Nightingale, when he received the full, uncensored version of events, frowned at me.

“You made no attempt to apprehend her?” he asked.

“I did make a very threatening fireball, sir,” I said.  

“Peter, I am glad that you avoided an unnecessary risk this once. Your safety and wellbeing is paramount. That said… I hope you understand, now that she’s gone this far down this path—however close you were in the past, Lesley May is not your friend. Not anymore.”

Actually, I reckoned she was. We just happened to be on opposite sides of things now but I decided Nightingale probably didn’t want to hear that and kept it smartly to myself.

Instead, I went on to explain in detail the horror-movie style vestigia that accompanied Lesley’s new face. Nightingale was about as pleased as I was. “Dear god,” he said. “What has she gotten herself into?” 

“I wish I knew, sir,” I said. “What about the Rivers?”

“Do you trust what Lesley told you? It could be a ploy of some kind.”

I said that while a ploy was a distinct possibility, I trusted Lesley in this instance. If there was another nefarious plot afoot, I didn’t think she was part of it. “Faceless could have leaked the intel her, suspecting she’d try to find a way to warn us,” I said. 

“That is a possibility we will have to take into account,” Nightingale agreed. “Nevertheless, we must take the threat to the Thames’ safety seriously.”

“What if he’s planning to do them harm through their rivers directly?” I asked. “Dumping dangerous chemicals in the water, that kind of thing.”

Between Sky, and what Oxley said happened to Papa Thames’ sons during the Great Stink, there was more than enough evidence to convince me that there was a very real, very exploitable, symbiotic link between the Rivers and their rivers. What was done to the rivers happened to the Rivers.

Although I doubted any prosecutor would be willing to lay charges against someone for murder if they dumped a bunch of toxic chemicals in a river. They’d get done for environmental crimes and illicit dumping—and only then if they hadn’t paid the judge off. And it’s not like environmental crime was exactly a high priority for the Met. Which made it an alarmingly good strategy for how to get away with murder unless we could get it classed as bioterrorism—and doing that would require us bringing Counter Terrorism Command in on the operation.

“We’ll have to have additional patrols around each of the rivers,” said Nightingale. He was right, but that was a ridiculous amount of ground to cover and I really didn’t think there was any way the Met possibly could afford it, let alone accomplish it and keep on top of all the other breaches of the peace that popped up on a daily basis. Plus paperwork and interviewing—not to mention all that standing around looking broody and serious to give off that all important air like you’re really, truly, working your bollocks off and “Really, sir, I couldn’t possibly take on another case and I’ve already worked overtime four times this week.”

“We have to be careful about how we approach that, sir,” I said. “We can’t risk alerting Faceless that we’re on to him. That could put Lesley in danger.”

Despite his current opinion on Lesley, Nightingale agreed. “The commissioner’s not going to be happy about this,” he said.

“Neither are the Rivers,” I said.

“You’re full of helpful reminders, aren’t you, Peter?”

“No thanks necessary, sir,” I said cheerily. “That’s what they pay me for.”  
  
We decided that Nightingale would deal with the Commissioner while I went to Mama Thames’ court to speak with her and her daughters. Because I was the bringer of wonderful news and jolly to everyone I encountered that day, you’ll be surprised how well both groups took the news. I have it on good authority that the Commissioner nearly swore Nightingale out of his office.

“You have good rapport with the family,” said Nightingale before I left. “Best you deal with that side of things.”

So I called Bev before I drove down to Shadwell Basin and asked if she could arrange to have her sisters meet me there.

“Why?” Beverley asked. She didn’t sound pleased.

“Because you love me?” I said. “There’s a situation. You’ll need to come back to London too.”

I knew she wouldn’t want to be far from the Thames Valley under the circumstances.

“Mel and I have plans. If you want me to come back, you’re going to have to do a lot better than ‘there’s a situation.’”

“What plans?” I asked, unable to help myself. “Don’t bees form a protective cluster around their Queen during the winter?”

“I thought you didn’t know about this stuff.”

“I don’t. I looked into bee behaviour when we got back from Herefordshire.”

“Of course you did,” Beverley said fondly. “Are you going to tell me about this situation or what?”

“I can’t explain over the phone,” I said. “But I promise it’s urgent and I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t absolutely necessarily.”

“Okay. Give me an hour to make some calls. And not that I don’t miss you, Peter, but if it turns out this ‘urgent situation’ of yours is just that you’re lonely then your arse owes me. Big time.”

“My arse will be happy to oblige,” I said and then promised that I was not calling her back to London because I was lonely—not just that anyway.

Once I finished with Bev, I called the situation into CID on the off chance that Faceless was using me to gather Mama Thames and her daughters all in one spot and they agreed to send a couple tactile support vehicles along for the ride.

To my surprise, Beverley’s Kia Picanto was amongst the mass of vehicles already in the carpark when we arrived at the converted warehouse where Mama Thames held court an hour and a half later. I knew from experience the drive from Herefordshire should take a good three hours. We all parked in the carpark and I headed into the lobby while the TSG guys waited outside.

Beverley was there to greet me on the threshold with a soft, short kiss with her full lips—much too short, in my professional opinion. She wore a deep, royal purple top with a wide neck that revealed her sleek dark shoulders, jeans, and matching sequined flip-flops. Her dreads tumbled alluringly down her shoulders and back.

I asked her how she’d gotten there so fast but she said we shouldn’t keep her mum waiting and ushered me inside with an air of importance. She wasn’t acting now as my girlfriend, but as a River Goddess and a dignitary of her mother.

Mama Thames’ flat was exactly as I remembered—hot and humid, peach walls and the smell of chicken and rice wafting in from the kitchen. Mama Thames’ daughters stood in full majesty in two straight lines to the left and right of their mother’s throne and Bev, once she’d formally introduced me, took her place amongst them. Effra waved at me, while Lady Ty directed a thin-lipped smile at me that I definitely didn’t trust. Mama Thames herself sat regally in the largest of the armchairs. She had a smooth, dark, rounded face and watched me closely as I approached. With her gaze came the steady robust pull of her glamour—but fortunately, I’d had more than enough experience with that kind of thing to brace myself against it and not fall on my knees kissing her feet and begging for her eternal love.

“My daughter tells me you have news for me,” said Mama Thames.

“Yes,” I said. “But first, I offer tribute to Mother Thames, blessed Goddess of the cleanest River of the Industrial Age, in all her splendour and glory.”

I bowed low and kissed the back of Mama Thames’ hand while I was at it. When I rose, she was smiling at me. “Good boy,” she said. “I see you haven’t forgotten your manners. But let’s get to business.”

“The Metropolitan Police Service has received credible information,” I said carefully. “That there is a serious threat against the lives of you and your daughters.”

Mama Thames laughed. “And what kind of credible threat does the Metropolitan Police Service believe can do harm to the Goddess of the River Thames?”

“We can’t be certain,” I said. “But most likely something biological. Like what killed Father Thames’ sons during the Great Stink, except done with the express intent of harming you and your daughters.”

“Really?” said the Lady Tyburn. She looked at me disdainfully. “I, for one, would like to know where the Met received its so-called ‘credible information’.”  

“The identity of our informant must remain confidential to ensure their safety,” I said.

“What a coincidence,” said Lady Ty.

Mama Thames looked at me critically. “Why do you believe this?” she asked.

“We have it on good authority that something is going to happen, Mama,” I said. “I trust the source of the information. The theory as to method for the plan of attack is my own.”

I felt the full force of Mama Thames’ gaze on me—the full tide of the river with the power of the sea at its back. I looked down into the storm surge of the River Thames and the River Thames looked back, inspecting me down to my core as she surged ever onwards. She must have found me worthy because she said then, “All right, Starling. You have done well for us in the past. I will trust your word on this matter.”

I didn’t ask how she’d heard the nickname. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

I suggested the Rivers stay with Mama Thames so they’d be all in one place where the Met could keep a watchful eye over them but Mama insisted that her daughters needed to be at the source of their Rivers to protect themselves.

“They’re the source of our magic and our lives as much as the source of our rivers,” Beverley told me afterwards as the two of us took the A3 down to Sutton. I couldn’t stay with her until the threat had passed, but the least I could do was see her there safely.

Beverley pointed out in no uncertain terms that she didn’t need me protecting her. Having seen Beverley Brook in action on more than one occasion, I knew this was true. In fact, she’d often been the one to come to my rescue and if anyone needed protection, it would be Faceless if he tried to harm to Beverley, her mother, her sisters, or me. Not that I would have any pity for him if he made that mistake, you understand. I just want to be clear about where I’d put my money if it came down to it.

“Lesley cares about you, too,” I said. “She asked me to look out for you especially.”

“Only for your sake,” she said.

I didn’t think that was the case and said as much. Beverley thanked me and put her hand on my thigh. It was pleasantly warm and exceptionally distracting while driving but I had no complaints.

I parked the Asbo and then Beverley and I walked hand in hand to the source of her river. The Beverley Brook ran through a ridiculous number of parks in London, but she started here, Cuddington Recreation Grounds in Worcester Park, Sutton with a belt of willows and oaks along her bank. I couldn’t help staring at Bev as we walked. There was something incredibly sexy about her there, that close to her source,—something that went beyond my own desire for her; deep, heavy and ancient.

The sky was a dark threatening grey, but her dark skin was glowing golden amber like the sun shone down on her at high noon on a hot midsummer’s day. I wanted to soak up her sunlight and lick the cocoa butter off her skin. If I’d ever questioned whether the power held by the _genii locorum_ was the power of gods and goddesses, my doubt shattered then.

Beverley Brook emerged as a shallow, narrow trickle from a pipe guarded on three sides by Victorian red brick.

“Ew,” said Beverley. “It’s a tunnel, not a pipe.”

Despite the freezing temperature of the water, Beverley took off her shoes and her socks and stepped into the water. She turned back to face me and reached her hands out to me— expectant, waiting. Her head cocked to the side and her dark and clever cat shaped-eyes gleaming brightly.

I’d rushed into the water once before and that had resulted in my willing, but unwitting, impregnation of a river. But I’d like to think that Beverley would have warned me before inviting me into the Lug if I’d been making any grand life altering decisions—although it was possible we had different ideas as to what constituted life altering decisions. So I decided that rushing into the barren Lug was one thing and stepping into the source of the Beverley Brook with her goddess barefoot at its heart was another thing entirely. When I took Beverley’s offered hands, taking care to keep my feet firmly planted on the narrow slope of the bank, they were as warm as a hot summer’s day.

“Not my best angle,” said Beverley, looking down at the tunnel where her water emerged and scrunching her nose.

“No,” I said, breathing her in. “You’re fucking gorgeous.”

Bev smiled. “Flatterer. You really think Faceless is coming after us?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But it’s not worth the risk.”

I pulled her to me and she wrapped her arms around my waist as I took stock of the situation.

Who were the most likely targets? Honestly, I thought going after any of the Rivers was a stupid move for the Faceless Man to make because if they wanted to, they could have Faceless scrubbing their kitchen floors in a heartbeat. Which solidified my theory that the most likely murder weapon would be something biological. That or a high-powered sniper rifle. Definitely not anything up close and personal that would give the Rivers a chance to put their glamour or magic into action. I pulled Bev in closer and glanced nervously up into the trees with my sharp-eyed wizard senses hoping that if there was some bastard with a rifle out there I’d be able to spot him.  

Mama Thames was the highest profile target, but also the most difficult to get at. The River Thames is 346 km and Papa Thames had been around since before London herself was born, so there’d have to be something colossal to kill off the goddess of the Thames herself. But we couldn’t be sure how far Faceless’ power reached. If he had his hands in enough cookie jars that he felt he could take out the Goddess of the Thames, stopping him would be no easy feat. By my careful calculations, I figured Tyburn, Fleet, and Beverley were the next most powerful targets.

Brent and Nicky, the youngest of Mama Thames daughters, would be the easiest targets—but their deaths would also bring the biggest blowback. Mama Thames and her remaining daughters would flood the entire city seeking vengeance against Faceless if he took out little Brent or Nicky. Probably not them then, unless Faceless had a death wish. I wasn’t sure he didn’t have one anyhow.

So why take the risk? The Faceless Man was an arrogant and theatrical bastard and this fit his pattern of big showy, ego-stroking moves—but there had to be something more.

With just a simple _impello,_ I’d ruined his plans for Skygarden. _Imagine what I might do with forty years’ accumulated potential_ , he’d said.

Imagine what he might do with the power of a River God, I thought.

**

The briefing room in the CTC was large, low ceilinged with a stretch of fluorescent lights and the off-white linoleum flooring flavoured to give public schools, hospitals, and other buildings intended for the proletariat just the right flare of industrialism. It was truly a marvel of modern architecture—insomuch as it and all its concrete brethren were certain to become a marvel in a couple millennia to extraterrestrials who would point to the boxes as examples of humanity’s greatest failings. Walking into the room, I was met with a sea of white and felt as Frodo must have done when he brought the ring before the Council of Elrond. They’d even kindly placed a series of tables in a circular fashion around the room for added effect. There’s nothing more terrifying than walking into a room full of old white men in suits—especially when they’re police. If it came down to it, I wasn’t about to offer take the ring to Mordor alone.

A few of my Fellowship were there at least—Nightingale took a seat beside me, a calm and steadying presence. Kittredge, if not a friendly face was at least a familiar one and it was made up for by the presence of Kumar from the BTP, recently promoted to Inspector—in case anything that went south impacted the Underground, I supposed. Both these last, I presumed, were invited at least in part because of their previous interactions with Falcon operations. Lady Ty had somehow gotten herself in which didn’t surprise me. And while I can’t say I was exactly pleased to see her, I was glad someone was there representing the Rivers; they had more stake in this than anyone else. She was smartly dressed in an off-white three-piece suit and sat straight backed and poised in a high-back, well cushioned ergonomic office chair that definitely must have been the most comfortable in the building. Even the commissioner had deigned us with his presence. Which meant if I were wrong about this whole thing and nothing happened, I’d really be in shit. No pressure.

The commander of the CTC was a skinny, sharp-nosed white guy in his 50s with curling grey hair who went by the unfortunate name of Glenn Rector. He stood in the centre of the circle of tables and led the briefing himself instead of having one of his no doubt many lackeys do it, which surprised me. A hands-on approach from officers of ACPO rank was a rare touch. After outlining the immediate threat, Rector turned towards me and Nightingale and requested the SAU’s expertise on the suspect and his possible motives.

All eyes turned on Nightingale, what with him being the senior officer and all, but being at his side in the cramped circle, our elbows nearly bumping—it felt an awful like they were on me. I swallowed.

Nightingale rose to his feet, a series of papers in hand, and adjusted his tie. He cleared his throat before he spoke and I realized, with a start, that Thomas _Tiger Tank_ Nightingale was nervous. “We believe our suspect has, shall we say, stakes in causing massive damage to one or more of London’s rivers—”

“We’ll need you to be more specific, Inspector,” said Rector. “What are the suspects stakes in damaging our rivers?”

“You’re certain you want this a matter of record?”

“Quite.”

“The Thames Valley has what we at the Folly call _genii locorum—_ spirits of a locality. The genii locorum of the rivers in London consider themselves deities. This is a matter of some debate, but the power they hold is real and undeniable. Our best guess is that the suspect is hoping to insert himself into the Thames hierarchy. Effectively, he believes if he can create an opening, he’ll be able to establish himself as a God of the River.”

I wasn’t even sure that was possible—didn’t the Thames _itself_ choose its representatives? That’s how it worked with Mama Thames. But it was my best guess.

And what most of the room thought of that I couldn’t imagine. I heard a few derisive snorts and caught a number of senior officers exchanging dubious glances. A couple actually nodded their heads sagely as if that all made perfect sense—so either they’d encountered some aspect of the demi-monde previously or, more likely, they’d already fallen half asleep and were trying to give off the air that they were paying rapt attention. Kumar’s expression of deep interest was the only one I believed.

“While we don’t have any leads as to the identity of the suspect, the profile put together by my team at the SAU suggests that the suspect is an affluent white male in his 30s,” said Nightingale.

“What information has led your team to conclude this?” asked Rector.

“I spoke to him,” I said. “And his speech patterns indicate an affluent IC1 male in his 30s.” And everything about him and what he does reeks of white privilege—coincidentally like the majority of this room, I didn’t say. Those fucking suits alone screamed rich white boy. I bet my status as an apprentice wizard that Rector wouldn’t have questioned our conclusion if we’d said we thought the Faceless Man was a person of colour. Who says racial profiling is dead?

“Quite,” said Nightingale, somewhat gratefully. “We also have reason to believe he is well educated, most likely at Oxford. The … tutor and predecessor who has given him the skills he employs in his illicit activities was himself trained at an Oxford dinning club known as the Little Crocodiles during the course of his education. We are still pursuing leads down that arena.”

“What skills?” asked Rector. “Again, Inspector, we need you to be specific. This is a serious threat and we require as many details as possible if we are going to prevent it.”

I felt Nightingale hesitate beside me. “Magic,” I said, exhibiting the tact I am so well known and loved for throughout the Met. Another round of snickers through the room. “If you don’t believe me, you can turn off your phones and shut down all the equipment in the room and I can show you,” I said.

“Ah,” said Rector, not so much waving his hand at me as flailing it. “That won’t be necessary, Constable. Thank you, Inspector Nightingale—that will be all.”

Nightingale let out a sigh of relief as he sat down heavily in his chair. “Thank you, Peter,” he whispered amidst the snickering and muttering that had broken out in the room. I hoped they were still going to take this seriously—and I wasn’t alone in that concern.

“Any time, sir,” I whispered back just as Lady Ty rose to her feet.

All eyes, including mine, immediately went to her, as if drawn by impulse. Which they probably were, if you accepted that the impulse in question was an external force exerted by a river goddess. All sound stopped, as if Lady Ty had hit the shut off valve on sound itself. You could’ve cut yourself on that sudden silence. When she spoke, it was in quiet, clipped tones.

“I am not known for my agreement with the Folly and its modus operandi. However, in this instance, the Nightingale speaks true and I, along with my mother and sisters, express my deepest gratitude for their protection.”

She looked at me and Nightingale and I very much doubted she was grateful for our involvement, but wasn’t about to say anything. I was already in her bad books as it was—she probably had a picture of me with the words _Public Enemy #1_ in neat cursive next to it. Contradicting her in a public forum? She’d choke me with my own blood as soon as I was alone. Or worse.

“As one of the aforementioned River Goddesses,” said Lady Ty. “I am going to need you all to take this a great deal more seriously and do your due diligence. Elsewise, I will hold each and every one of you personally accountable should harm befall any member of my family. Is that clear?”

There was a surge of warning power like a death march and the tightening of the noose. I saw a few people rubbing at their throats unconsciously as everyone nodded their heads emphatically.

Lady Ty smiled at the room. “Wonderful,” she said. “Glenn, if you’d like to continue.” 

Rector stared dumbfounded and open-mouthed at Lady Ty. Ty kept on smiling daintily at him until he blinked and seemed to come out of—wherever he’d been. “Ah, yes,” he said, clearing his throat. And then we got on with it.  
  
**

I am not, by any stretch of imagination, considered a vet in the Met. That elusive title is reserved for old white guys in their sixties and beyond, retired or nearly so, who bemoan the "good ole days" with long, dreamy sighs that rival lovesick Romeos and Juliets everywhere.

That said, I had in my comparatively short time as an officer sworn to maintain the Queen's peace, seen more devastation and horror than most officers with decades of service under their belts. I'd been at the centre of two of London's most devastating incidents in recent memory—the Covent Garden riots and the demolition of Skygarden. Acted as de facto head of a specialist unit while my guvnor recovered from a gunshot wound. Had an epic magical rooftop duel to the death with an unethically challenged magician in Soho. Offered my life up to the Fairy Queen in exchange for the life of two children in the child abduction case that rocked the nation—with the result that we ended up with one more child than we’d had before the abduction so score one Peter Grant. And that was just the stuff I could count on one hand. All while apprenticing as a Magician and learning magic.

So fortified by my past experiences and armed with a lecture on bioterrorism and a hazmat suit provided by the CTC, I felt ready to tackle just about anything that might come my way. Of course, any time you feel prepared is probably when everything's about to go pear shaped.

We focused our investigation on the roads and the waterways. Suspicious looking trucks that might be off to dump their nefarious contents into the river. Boats moored too long. Industrial warehouses and labs that might house agents of biological terror.

But when the incident occurred, nearly a week later, it didn’t come from the land or the sea, but from the sky.

It was a cold blustering Sunday January morning, snowing hard by London standards and Mama Thames had requested, through Beverley, an update on the situation. I parked the Asbo behind the only other vehicle in the carpark, Bev’s Kia Picanto. Mama Thames must have sent the TSG van packing and I was just considering how I could tacitly broach the subject with her of why this was a bad idea when I heard it—the low rumble of a jet engine, loud and close and definitely flying below regulation standards. I looked up at the sky in time to see slick oil flood onto the water from above.

The plane, I learned later, was a BAe 146 retrofitted air tanker. Both it and its mate which joined it in dumping crude oil into the Thames were sold to a Canadian private aerial wildfire prevention corporation in late 2012 but due to some international bureaucratic bollocks, they’d been left rotting in a warehouse in South London for about a year.

As I heard it later, both air tankers landed separately in parks near where they’d dumped their respective loads and when armoured tactical support teams surrounded the aircraft, the pilots were nowhere to be found. So, either the Faceless Man took care of them mighty fast or he’d flown the tankers with magic—which I doubted, but who knows? Maybe he had a blue 1960s police call box.

The subsequent investigation found no link between County Gard or any of the other shell companies we’ve connected to Faceless’ operations, and the corporations involved with the sale and purchase of the retrofitted air tankers. Which didn’t necessarily mean there wasn’t a link—just that Faceless, despite Nightingale’s insistence that he was definitely not Moriarty, was far too good at clearing his tracks for my liking. Probably Lesley was lending a hand with that, since she knew exactly what we’d go looking for.

I ran across the carpark to the riverbank. Black was sinking slowly into Thames’ waters, creeping and spreading, the smell of oil potent and putrid in my nose. It was overpowering but I’d dealt with worse and from my initial olfactory assessment, I guessed there wasn’t any magic attached to it. CTC was probably being inundated with 999 calls so they’d be on it in no time if they weren’t already. So I took out my airwave and dialed Nightingale.

“It’s just oil,” I said. “Unless it’s magic oil. But I’m not getting any vestigia off it.” And it hadn’t blown my airwave.

I took a moment to steel myself against the smell, knelt down close to the water, and reached my hand towards the oil to investigate. This, as it turns out, is about the stupidest thing you can do where crude oil is concerned. Well, at least I hadn’t stuck my head in.

“Be careful, Peter,” said Nightingale. Which was pretty much exactly when the explosion hit, cutting him off.

I felt it before I saw it—the snarling dog of a demon trap, enraged and twisted around what felt like a slower, measured version of my skinny grenades, like the controlled demolition of a tower.

Flames roared along the riverbed and before I could jump back, something with faster reflexes than me slammed into my shoulder blades and knocked me back. I hit the back of my head against the cement of the carpark when I landed. I blinked and for a moment, there was only the hot orange red sky and a mass of dreads above me. Straddling me, having knocked me out of the way of the blast, was Beverley. Black smoke rose from her shoulders. I rolled us over so she was on her back where the grass at the edge of the embankment suffocated the fumes on her back.

I looked up to find fire erupted into the sky as high as the tallest trees like a massive fireball gone wild and out of control, and I realized with a start that _the river was on fire._ And there was definitely magic in those rolling, hungry flames. I felt the forma, a variation of the _lux iactus_ Nightingale and me used to create fireballs with a bit of _scindere_ and the snarling dog of a demon trap thrown into the mix. I shivered in spite of the heat barrelling down from the wall of fire. Someone had used magic to do this. Magic—magic was a gift, I thought. And they’d used it and buckets of crude oil to set fire to the Thames.

My phone and airwave were dead which meant the magic had been cast within a short enough radius for the perpetrator to be near. So Faceless, or a magical practitioner under him, was close—very close, and had cast a fireball or a variation of a fireball. I hoped it wasn’t Lesley. Was it possible Faceless had another apprentice?

A rumble started below us—a deep bellow in the hollow of the earth and thunder clapped. The door to the warehouse banged open and Mama Thames in all her glory strode purposely towards us. Water collected from somewhere—the atmosphere? Hyperspace? An alternate universe?—and collated in her outstretched hands, bigger than my record-breaking werelight last summer, as big as the sun and growing fast. She sent the water surging, ceaseless and torrential like rapids at the fire. The sky cracked opened and rain joined the fray. It was cold enough that it should have come down as freezing ice pellets, but it stuck to its guns and remained firmly in its liquid state—the physics of which I decided I didn’t want to question. At least not then.

Bev groaned and I reached a hand out to help her sit up.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Saving your stupid arse again,” she said through gritted teeth and then pounded her fist into the ground in a gesture that was half anger, half pain. “Fucking fuck, I can’t hear the water.”

I kneeled beside her and now that I had her sitting, I saw the damage. The fire had left nothing at the back of the burgundy jumper she’d been wearing. Soot covered her back and arms in angry white welts and necrotic tissue. She must have taken a direct hit because the burns, if I had to guess, looked to like a mix of third and fourth degree. More alarming, there was a piece of blackened wood sticking out from a gaping wound in her side.

“Fuck,” I said and unravelled my scarf from my neck and pressed it to her side. Blood drenched the fabric and seeped into my hands. “What do you mean, you can’t hear the water?”

“I mean,” said Beverley. “I _can’t hear the fucking water_ , Peter.”

There was a bang as a second explosion erupted further down the river. Sirens in the distance meant the fire brigade and emergency crew were on their way. Bev screamed in rage and pain. But what could I do? I remembered Ash, begging me to take him to the river—how quickly he’d healed once I got him in the water. But I couldn't bring her into the river because in every direction, as far as the eye could see, it was slick with oil and burning. Even as far back from the bank as I pulled her, an estimated fifteen metres, I could feel the hungry heat of the flames biting at my heels. Toxic fumes and smoke caught in my lungs and I made me start coughing. Beverley’s face screwed up in agony and her eyes were wrenched shut. With one hand, I gripped her sweaty palm in mine and stroked her cheek with the fingertips of the other. She wreathed on the ground beneath me and I wasn’t sure she still knew I was there.

The culprit was nearby, but I couldn’t leave Beverley. Surely Nightingale would be on his way by now given the way our communication cut off. I’d have to hope he arrived quick enough to track down our magical fire-starter.

“Bring her to Cuddington,” said Mama Thames.

“Can’t you do anything?” I asked. “You’re the Thames.”

“I know who I am, wizard,” said Mother Thames, the full force of the river thundering over a waterfall behind her. “And I know what my daughter needs. Your unethical magician has tainted my waters—they would do her more harm than good.”

He wasn’t _my_ unethical magician I wanted to say. I didn’t want anything to do with him unless it was locking him behind bars for life. And maybe setting his stupid Faceless face on fire. But this wasn’t the time—not least because arguing semantics with the Goddess of the River Thames while she fought a great bloody fire with tooth and nail, and water conjured up from the very bowls of the earth for all I knew was staunchly inadvisable.

I scooped Beverley into my arms and stumbled to my feet.

“Take care of my baby girl,” said Mama Thames. Her voice softened fondly but remained firm with a warning undercurrent.

“I will,” I said and started towards the Asbo.

I tried to give Beverley water with _aqua_ as we drove but in my fear, I couldn't get the _forma_ correct and anyway it was useless because wherever it pulled water from—the atmosphere or the liquids in my own body or a fucking parallel universe for all I knew, it clearly didn’t originate from the Thames. Anything I gave her was just water. Not Thames water. Not the lifeblood water she needed to heal.

We did blues and twos all the way to Worcester and then I drove straight through Cuddington Recreation Ground, across the empty tennis courts and sports fields. The snow wasn’t deep but it was wet and heavy and the Asbo wasn’t exactly built for all terrain drive so I used a variation of _impello_ on the wheels to help glide us through the wet snow. The _forma_ was shoddy and slippery in my panic-stricken mind as I shoved and prodded it in place.

I parked as close to the bank of the Beverley Brook as I could, lifted Beverley gingerly out of the car, and carried her down to the tunnel where the Beverley Brook emerged. There was a layer of snow and thin ice across her water. I stamped with my foot then waded into the icy water and kicked the remaining ice away until I had an area big enough to lay Bev in. The water was shallow and barely covered her midriff. I cradled the back of her head in the crook of my arm and submerged my spare hand into the grove, splashing cold water onto Beverley’s prone form. The glove on my hand didn’t offer much in the way of warmth once it was soaked through. It was probably best I couldn’t see what colour my fingers were turning. My hands burned under the water. I was getting myself almost as wet as Beverley. It didn’t matter. I splashed more water over her face. Icicles formed in her hair and her eyelashes. She looked like Sleeping Beauty frozen in time.

Finally, she let out a yawn, opened her eyes, and stretched.

I flung myself into her arms, drenching what little dry patches remained on my coat, jumper, and jeans. At least with all the hypothermia-induced shaking and water I could maintain my manly pride. No, no tears here, ma’am—it was only the icy water dripping down my cheeks.

“Oh god, Peter,” she said and pulled me in close. Her skin was warming now and so was the water. “You’re freezing.”

Beverley told me she’d need to stay close to her river a while longer and added, in no uncertain terms, that I needed to get to a hospital. I’d stopped shivering by then. A bone-deep tired took charge of me. I wanted to fall asleep beside her in the heating, healing water. The paramedics that arrived seven minutes later, presumably hailed by a river goddess—though how she had a working phone is a mystery of our time—were very insistent that this would be a poor choice. They pried me away from her warm arms and her majestic river. Unsurprisingly, they didn’t force Bev away from the water. She smiled at them when they tried to take her away and suggested they leave her be. They did but they were exceptionally perturbed by their actions if the matching looks of consternation on their faces were anything to go by. So I was put in an ambulance, my wet clothes stripped away and replaced with dry sweatpants and sweatshirt and copious blankets, and ferreted half-asleep to the hospital.

 

When I woke, I was pleased to find that some kind soul had seen fit to fill my bedside table to the brim with grapes. I was more pleased still to find Beverley Brook, alert and well and smiling at my awakening, by my bed.

“Those are from Lesley,” she said when she saw me eyeing the grapes.

“How do you know?” I asked. There wasn’t a note that I could see. Had she been in to see me while Bev was here?

“They smell like her. Well… like her but not like her.”

That made about much sense as anything else. Although organic material, from the perspective of a wizard who’s 100% human didn’t maintain vestigia well so it raised questions that Beverley could detect whatever smell wizards give off to _genii locorum_ on the grapes. Which meant… what? _Genii locorum_ were sensing something else or deeper than vestigium when they smelled magic on us? Lesley had intentionally done magic near the grapes so Beverley could sense it? My girlfriend had super senses? All of the above? Yeah, let’s go with that last one.

I looked at the grapes dubiously. “You don’t think they’re poisoned, do you?”

“Nah,” said Bev. “Nothing like that.”

“Have you been here all night?” I asked.

Beverley rolled her eyes. “Oh yes, all night—it’s not like I had to heal up, go check on my sisters and mum and help finish putting out that damn fire first. But you were my top priority after all that.”

“So it’s just a coincidence that your beautiful face is here to greet me upon waking?”

“Yep,” she said. “In fact, I have to get back soon. There’s still a shit ton to deal with—all that bloody oil.”

Well, it was a coincidence that suited me just fine. I asked after her sisters and Beverley assured they were all fine if a little skeeved—understandable. I smiled and reached for her hand. She stood to accept my offering and leaned in to kiss my cheek. I turned my head, meeting her with my lips instead. She smelt of cocoa butter and vanilla cream, cinnamon and cloves and the earth after a rainstorm. I felt her smile into the kiss which tickled my lips softly.

“Cheeky bugger,” she said when she broke the kiss. She kept her face close, her forehead against mine. Her warm breath teased my lips. “None of that now. You’re supposed to be resting.”

“But you’re so fit,” I said.

“You know it.”

“Come to bed with me.”

“Peter—“

“For sleep,” I said and offered her the full schoolboy grin. “Promise.”

I shifted to give her room and tugged gently at her arm. She sighed lugubriously as she climbed under the covers beside me. I put my arm around her. She curled tight and close and warm against my side. We lay together in the silence, and I fell asleep to the sound of her soft breathing.  

Beverley was gone the next time I woke, the chair she’d vacated now occupied by Nightingale. The dark circles under his eyes made him look closer to his age than I’d ever seen him. Which was still several decades off from his actual age.

“Peter,” he said when he saw that I was awake. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” I said.

“Excellent. I believe Dr. Walid would like you to remain for observation a while longer. He tells me you suffered a moderate case of hypothermia, with frostbite across your arms and face.”

“How did we do?” I asked.

“The fire was extinguished at last, after many grueling hours, thanks to the gallant work of Caffrey’s team and the Rivers.”

All told, the combined air tankers dropped an approximate 18.88 tonnes of crude oil along two separate stretches of the Thames Valley. Cleanup, Nightingale told me, was under way and extreme caution being taken lest there be an additional accidental, non-magical explosion. Apparently, even the slightest spark could set of a tertiary explosion worse than the initial magical blasts. It was a good deal I wasn’t down there then.

“Why weren’t the planes intercepted?”

“Apparently,” said Nightingale. “They had clearance.” 

The aircraft, supposedly,  were about to finally be sent on to their Canadian buyers and they’d requested a flyover practice run along the Thames Valley to ensure all the parts were still working as they should.

“But they were filled with buckets of crude oil instead of water?” I said.

“Precisely,” said Nightingale.

Everything had checked out at the time—but the investigation had already uncovered that the imminent delivery of their long-awaited air tankers was news to the Canadian corporation who’d bought them. So either it was an inside job—or somebody fucked up big time. The consequences of both options were equally disturbing.

Nightingale continued. “The Rivers, led by Beverley Brook, have taken charge of overseeing the clean-up process.”

Well done Beverley, I thought. “What about long-term environmental effects?” I asked.

“That remains to be seen. It may take weeks, months, or even years before we are able to determine the full extent of the damage. Mother Thames’ seems to have taken ill. I believe Effra has taken charge of her mother’s care. According to her, Mother Thames is cycling the oil through her own body to prevent serious damage to the ecosystem.”

“How’s she doing that?”

“Honestly, Peter—I haven’t the foggiest idea.”

A symbiotic relationship between _genii locorum_ and their localities was a theory proposed by a number of Newton’s contemporaries, including Polidori. Mama Thames’ illness post-oil spill was yet another nail in the coffin confirming that hypothesis. But could she cycle the oil through her body in order to protect the environment? I’d have to check the literature in the mundane library when I got back to the Folly. Or maybe see if I could get Beverley to tell me. I wondered if she could persuade her mum to take a visit down to UCH to visit Dr. Walid.

Nightingale frowned and the weary, tired set of his face told me there was more he wanted to say. I pushed myself into a sitting position and waited patiently for him to speak while I considered the theoretical ramifications. Why could Mama Thames cycle crude oil through her system, but Father Thames’ boys were killed by the pollutant sewage of the Great Stink? Did they not have that power? Volume of pollutant, divided by the size of the river, equals a river spirit’s capacity to act as a filter for ecological damage to their territory? 

Father Thames hadn’t done anything except run up past Teddington Lock that summer in 1858—but that didn’t necessarily mean he didn’t have the power if he’d seen fit to give it a try. Revenge through inaction—no wonder the Thames sought out another deity.

“We have an additional problem,” said Nightingale at last, looking suitably grim. “I knew I shouldn’t have left the Folly, but the alternative…”

He hesitated and I decided to save him the trouble of having to admit he’d been worried for me when the magic impetus of the blast cut off our communication. “Was the death of a River goddess, an evil bastard becoming an immortal god, and London burning to the ground. Nothing short of the apocalypse then, sir.”

“Quite,” said Nightingale. He rubbed at his eyes tiredly. “Peter… Do you recall the door I asked you to check once you’d secured the Folly last spring?”

The armoured steel door decorated in the swooping circles of modern Gallifreyan that I suspected was the infamous Black Library ever since Hugh Oswald had told me what happened at Ettersberg? That door? Strangely enough, as it happens, I did remember it.  

“I wasn’t aware Hugh told you…” said Nightingale. “Yes, you’ve surmised correctly as to what lies behind it. I don't think I need to tell you how strong the defences guarding it were, nor emphasize the danger of the secrets it held."

He didn’t.

“They’ve taken everything,” said Nightingale and I swear his voice cracked with emotion—fear, loathing, grief all rolled into one. “The door cracked open, all its seals broken, all the contents—gone.”

All the work his friends died to procure gone, he didn’t say.

“So what happened at the Thames…” I said.

Nightingale rubbed at his temples and sat straighter in his chair—trying to steady himself, I guessed. “Was merely a distraction in order to ensure we were otherwise occupied while they gained access to the Black Library—yes. Although I’m sure if they’d succeeded in killing one of the Rivers, Faceless would have considered that an added bonus.”

“Do you think Lesley was involved, sir?” I asked.

“Oh, I’m certain of it,” said Nightingale. “Her _signare_ was all over.”

I’d been right. The spell that ignited the oil _had_ been a skinny grenade—set on a delayed timer and combined with a demon trap. My spell, which resulted in the skinny grenades going off in anywhere from five seconds to five minutes when I did it— perfected and controlled down to an art and perverted with demon trap tech. That had to be Lesley. Who else could work with such precision?  

Fuck me, I thought. There was no way Lesley meant for anything to happen to Beverley. But intentional or not, Lesley had almost gotten my girlfriend killed. There were some things a man can’t look past and that was one of them.

“What about Molly?” I asked.

“Subdued during the break-in, but unharmed. Lesley’s handiwork.”

Lesley wouldn’t have wanted Molly harmed either. That made sense.

 

When Dr. Walid released me back into the wilds later that day, I checked first on Molly and then headed down the back stairs to the brick-lined corridor that once housed the Black Library. The wooden door, blown unnecessarily off its hinges to reveal a wide, ragged crack, large enough to walk through with ease in the centre of the armoured steel door behind it. There were burn marks where the interlocking circles had been. I stepped through the crack. The interior was made of the same armoured steel, the walls lined with now empty mahogany shelves. It was damp, dusky, and smelt of old books. And it gave me the worst case of the creeps I’d ever experienced—far worse than Molly standing behind me, silent and staring as she sometimes liked to do. 

I stepped back outside and looked into the deep crack set in the battle-hardened steel. I considered all the things we didn’t know. What Faceless planned to do with the Black Library being at the top of the list now.

“It all kicks off in about a year,” Lesley had said—and we weren’t any closer to figuring out what that meant, beyond Faceless now having access to all the horrific knowledge collected through the worst magical human rights violations imaginable. This was just the start. 

In a sea of unknown, one thing was certain: Nightingale had been right. Lesley May was not my friend. Not anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> Tomorrow, tiny fandom, tomorrow! Shout if from the rooftops!
> 
> (also this was supposed to be like 500 words but I slipped and wrote an extra 11k.)
> 
> Addendum: I didn't realize until after posting, but Mama Thames' ability to cleanse oil was inspired by the amazing Octavia Butler's _Seed to Harvest_.


End file.
